


What Is Dead May Never Die

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 00:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: He had forgotten what his own face looked like before he met Ramsay, but he could never forget Ramsay’s face.





	What Is Dead May Never Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).

”You did well, my Reek. You deserve a reward.”

He knew better than to ask for food, or a bath, or clean clothes, and especially not for freedom. “I only did what you told me, my lord.”

“Are you saying you don’t deserve a reward?”

“I… I deserve whatever you give me.”

“I think you deserve to sleep in a nice warm bed tonight. How would you like that?”

He did not know what to say. It was a trap, that was a certainty with Ramsay. “If it please my lord.”

It turned out that it was Ramsay’s own bed he was to sleep in. Ramsay ordered him to curl at the foot of the bed like a lady’s favored pet dog. Reek did as he was told, but he knew he would not sleep. 

And sure enough, not long after the lamp was put out and they were in darkness, Ramsay ordered him to crawl beneath the covers. 

“Suck my cock.”

He knew better than to refuse. Ramsay was already at half-mast and Reek took his fat cock into his mouth carefully, mindful of his broken teeth. It was not long before Ramsay spent his seed. Reek did not have to be told to swallow, he knew he was expected to be grateful for anything Ramsay gave him. 

But when he started to crawl away, Ramsay grabbed his hair and shoved his face back into his groin. “Put it back in your mouth. You’re going to keep my cock warm all night.”

~

Theon had been an excellent hunter once. But his missing fingers and toes meant that he could no longer hold a bow properly or move smoothly and silently through the woods. Still, he managed to get a rabbit or a bird often enough to keep himself from starving. And the cloak he’d looted from a dead man kept him warm enough. He thought he might actually survive the winter. 

He was not sure why he tried to survive. Sometimes he laid in the snow out in the forest and waited to die, waited for the cold to take him or some wild animal to make a meal of him. But inevitably he would find himself rising and returning to the safety and relative warmth of Winterfell. 

It was empty but for Theon. After the last battle here, no one dared to venture within the walls of the ruined castle. Peasants and bandits would sooner freeze in their hovels than step foot here. Some feared monsters, and some feared ghosts, and some feared being caught amidst a battle should the kings and queens and their armies descend once more. 

Theon feared none of those things. The only monster in Winterfell had been the one he himself had let in, and Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of the Dreadfort, had been struck down by a hail of arrows. Warring armies would not bother him; Theon Turncloak was of no use to anyone, and Jon Snow had forbidden any northman from killing him, decreeing that he was to live, live with the knowledge of what he’d done, until the gods saw fit to take him. 

As for the ghosts, well, they were almost friends. Theon was almost one of them, and they seemed to know it. They whispered his name, calling to him with Bran’s voice whenever he went into the godswood. 

He was gathering berries not far from the king’s road one afternoon when he heard the whinny of a horse. He cautiously headed to the road, but the horse was gone by the time he reached it, leaving behind only hoof prints and the rider it had thrown. 

Theon drew his knife and crept forward slowly, but the rider remained motionless. The snow was too high and soft for the fall to have rendered him unconscious, so he must have been hurt before. He wore the cloak of a House Manderly man-at-arms and he had a sword and dagger at his belt. _A messenger from White Harbor_, Theon thought.

Then he rolled him over and saw his face and recoiled in horror. 

_No. No, it cannot be._

Ramsay Bolton’s face was one he would never forget. He had forgotten what his own face looked like before he met Ramsay, but he could never forget Ramsay’s face. He clutched his knife tighter. He had to plunge it into Ramsay’s chest immediately. 

_He’ll know! He’s only feigning. He’ll open his eyes and stop you before you can stab him. Then he’ll punish you. He’ll flay the skin from your hands until the pain drives you mad and you beg him to make it stop, and then he’ll cut off your hands and make you thank him for making the pain stop._

Theon put away his knife. He was too weak to carry a healthy-sized grown man like Ramsay, so he gripped the hem of Ramsay’s cloak as best he could and began dragging him home. 

It was a long, laborious process, but finally he got Ramsay into Winterfell. He took him to the best hiding spot he knew of. The crypts were pitch black, but they were warmer than the air above ground, and no one was likely to look for the living down there. He had no torch or candle, but he could count, and he knew how many paces there were from the entrance to the top of the stairs, and how many stairs there were to the newest tombs. 

Ramsay awoke as he was being dragged down to safety and began shouting vile curses. Even unwell he sounded like a roaring beast. 

“It’s me, my lord. It’s your Reek.”

“Reek? Reek! I knew you’d be here. Help me, and I’ll reward you richly when we get to the Dreadfort.”

The Dreadfort was where he’d learned his name. It was where Reek belonged. 

“I will, my lord. I’ll take care of you ’til you’re stronger.”

“Get me something to drink.”

There were only a few mouthfuls left in the water-skin he carried with him, and it was not enough to quench Ramsay’s thirst. Reek made him as comfortable as he could beside the statue of Lord Eddard Stark, and went back up to the realm of the living.

He could fill the water-skin with snow, but it would take a long time to melt into water and Ramsay was not a patient man. If Reek kept him waiting too long, he would be angry and he would punish him. Luckily, there were pools of water within the godswood that bubbled up from the earth’s depths hot as fresh blood. Reek was filling his water-skin from one of the pools when he heard it.

“Theon.”

It was a faint whisper at first, then it grew louder.

“Theon.”

He watched the weirwood heart tree and its solemn face, almost expecting to see its mouth moving. It did not change. It never changed. Its branches shook as a strong breeze blew. He heard a wolf howl, but he knew it was only the wind. 

“Theon,” the ghosts called again.

And suddenly Theon knew what they wanted from him. He returned to the crypts, but he did not enter. He made sure the doors were firmly shut, and then he began piling rubble against it. The sun sank beneath the horizon, but the moon rose bright and full, and Theon kept working. He dragged scorched beams and broken furniture from the vast ruins of Winterfell and stacked them until the doors of the crypt could no longer be seen. 

He was warm from exertion when the sun rose and he finally ceased his labor. It was done. The ghosts of Winterfell had been fed, and they would be quiet now as they digested their meal. 

Theon was not at all tired. He felt good. He felt strong. Ramsay and Reek were buried deep, never to trouble him or anyone ever again.


End file.
